Anniversary
by cowgirlfromhell
Summary: Anniversary: From the Latin anniversarius for year and to turn, a day that commemorates and/or celebrates a past event that occurred on the same day of the year as the initial event.


Anniversary

Anniversary: From the Latin _anniversarius_ for year and to turn, a day that commemorates and/or celebrates a past event that occurred on the same day of the year as the initial event.

Harvelle's Road House

July 19, 2007

Ellen and Jo are gone again leaving me in charge of the place. Not much of a place to be sure but home to many a hunter…including me. Oh, I know I don't look like your average hunter. I've been told more than once that I could be a model but get real folks. I'm five-foot shit and have a thrice broken nose that's never once been set by a real doctor. I also have scars that would put any fashionista worth his salt off his or her feed. Besides, guys will say anything if they think they can get into your pants.

I'm a hunter, raised by hunters long since gone, and not bad at what I do if I do say so myself. I have a small arsenal in the trunk of my car, a thick ass journal filled with the tricks of the trade right here behind the bar and I'm still alive. I'm also pretty proficient at tending said bar; hence the keys to the place in my pocket and the soft bed awaiting me up the stairs in the loft. I'm also very good at reading people and the guy who just walked in the door is wound tighter than Dick's hatband.

He stands just inside the door and I realize immediately that he's a hunter when his eyes first search out all the possible exits and entrances including the old iron grates stuck in and hanging haphazardly from the wooden ceiling. A man couldn't make it in or out of one of them but a demon sure as hell could. Next he takes in a deep breath, expanding his equally deep and well-muscled chest, and his eyes lock with mine. They're a pretty color and surrounded by thick lashes that would make any woman jealous but they're guarded and almost hostile and rebuff my non-existent come on. I don't sleep with hunters.

snsnsnsnsn

'I'll call it. Time of death: 10:41 am.'

Goddamn it! Those words have echoed in my ears at least a dozen times a day for a solid year now and I wonder again if they'll ever stop. Whiskey helps and, if I can get enough here and some information from Ash, I may be able to make it through today.

'I'll call it. Time of death: 10:41 am.' This time the disjointed voice in my head kicks me in the gut hard and it must show on my face because, even before I can sit down, the little hottie behind the bar is pouring a stiff one and sliding it toward me.

Smiling, although I feel like crying, I sit down and ask, "Ellen here?"

"Ellen and Jo are gone," she says and doesn't offer up any more information than that. I pretty much know that the Harvelles are on a hunt and that the new girl knows the ropes.

"How about Ash?"

She pointed looks around the bar, a smirk quirking her pouty lips. It's empty except for me so naturally, no Ash.

"What's your name," I ask trying to be social although I feel anything but.

"It's Genoa, Gen for short," she says and when I tell her it's a pretty name she adds, "Thanks. My mother always wanted to go to Italy…but she never made it."

Ellen's relief bartender is a little thing with a whole lot of attitude, extraordinarily exotic blue eyes and a great mass of coal black hair hanging down past her breasts/ For a moment I can imagine her naked, underneath me, my mouth on one of those glorious tits, my weight pushing her deeper into a soft mattress but the words echo through my mind for a third time in as many minutes. 'I'll call it. Time of death: 10:41 am,' and I know I won't sleep, especially not tonight.

God, this whiskey is so smooth. Not the usual rotgut Ellen serves me. Maybe it is something personal with Ellen…or maybe Gen just feels sorry for me. Genoa hasn't bothered to ask me my name but maybe it's for the best. I wouldn't want to get cut off before I even get started...if Ellen's told her anything about the Winchesters.

My glass is empty and sweet Genoa refills it, leaves the bottle and turns her back on me to wash glasses. I watch her bend over the sink, her hands buried in the sudsy hot water, and if I keep staring I'm gonna have a sad case of blue balls long before last call.

snsnsnsnsn

I can feel his eyes on me and I kinda wish he'd just head back out the way he came in. Another one of those killer smiles and I might just have to make an exception to my rule. Those perfect lips, the perfect white teeth, the dimples and the way the corners of his eyes crinkle up, mighty tempting but none of the joy in that ten thousand megawatt smile even comes close to reaching those eyes. Better safe than sorry, I always say.

I turn my attention from lewd thoughts of handsome stranger when the door opens and a perky little blonde comes in and sits down at a table, one that's mostly in the shadows and as far from the bar as she can get. Another hunter? Blondie orders a coke and dinner and while I make her a burger, bloody, I throw on a second for the guy at the bar, his well done with bacon and cheese. He hasn't offered his name and I know better than to ask. Hunters are a strange, secretive and motley crew.

Ash finally shows up with his laptop and speaks in hushed tones with the dude for fifteen maybe twenty minutes. Business in the front and party in the back doesn't even order a beer or give me his usual ration of shit; he's just kind of subdued and leaves without a "Good bye, Genoa" or even a "Fuck off, Salami" and that makes me wonder all the more about the stranger sitting at Ellen's bar.

As the night wears on the customers become fewer and fewer and finally there's only one die hard left at the beginning of the witching hour. I've been on my feet all day and that bed upstairs is calling my name but the man with no name and the million-dollar smile just sits and continues to drink. I start flipping off lights and turning chairs over onto the tabletops hoping he'll take the hint but he continues to sit glancing up at the clock every now an then.

Even though it's only a little past eleven and three hours before most bars close up, Harvelle's isn't that popular so I tell him, "I gotta call it."

snsnsnsnsn

'I'll call it. Time of death: 10:41 am.' I hear the words coming from Genoa's mouth and stare at her stupidly.

"I'm sorry, man, but its last call," she repeats in a tired, slightly hoarse voice.

I look up at the clock and there's still one hour to go until July 19th is a thing of the past. I've almost made it through the day, in an alcoholic stupor, yeah, but I've almost made it. Now I just have to make it to Jackson, Mississippi.

Pulling out my wallet, I look to Genoa for my tab and she tells me it's on the house. Almost a full bottle of Johnny Walker Gold and she's not charging me for it.

"You do know Ellen will have your ass for this," I tell her and she just laughs, a fairy laugh, like ringing bells and full of cheer despite her obvious fatigue.

"Ellen's lucky to have me, if you know what I mean," she says and I do.

She's capable and kind and evidently knows how to keep a secret and I wonder if I tell her mine if she'll keep it. But I just smile, put on my leather jacket and try to fish the keys to the Impala out of my jeans pocket while she watches me like a hawk the entire time.

I finally find the keys and hold them up triumphantly wobbling a little. I give her a goodbye grin and she snatches the keys out of my hand and shakes her head.

"Listen dude, you're too buzzed to drive," she says, "If I let go you'll just end up killing yourself…or somebody else and my conscience couldn't stand it."

Her voice is still cheery and not condescending but I don't want to stay. The information Ash gave me won't wait. Besides I've almost made it through the day, I think with some satisfaction, and right on cue its 'I'll call it. Time of death: 10:41 am'.

snsnsnsnsn

Oh, crap! Even though he's smiling, big fat tears start to well up in his eyes and roll down his cheeks like a dam's broken…or maybe it's his heart. I'm even more of a sucker for tears than for a smile and I come around the bar and wrap my arms around him. His arms remain stiffly at his sides until he realizes that I only want to comfort him.

"Whatever it is, it'll be alright," I tell him and he wraps his strong arms around me and hugs me, his heartbreaking sobs silent.

We stand together, our dance of sorrow tentative and clumsy, and when it ends he holds me at arms length and simply says, "My keys."

But I'm very firm in my resolution to keep him from driving and very weak in my resolution to not sleep with him so I take his hand and, after a little hesitation on his part, I lead him up the stairs to my room.

snsnsnsnsn

Genoa's room has a dresser; a table with a small television perched on it and a double bed, period. One wall is paneled in knotty pine planks and I know if I push on just the right one, a false door will probably spring open revealing at least one handgun and probably a shotgun or two. Ash didn't need to tell me that Genoa's a hunter, I figured as much. Who better than another hunter to keep an eye on the place? What Ash didn't tell me was that Genoa was a hunter with a heart of gold, something that could get her killed...or worse.

She sits down on the bed but there's doubt in her eyes and suddenly I'm thinkin' that this is a really bad idea. I tell her that I can sleep in my car and she sighs in what I can only believe is relief and then smiles at me.

"Listen, it's cold outside and I don't want you to freeze to death. Besides, I've shared beds with men before and all we did was sleep," she assures me and I can only think that every man jack one of those guys was either gay or an asshole.

I sit down beside her and my weight causes her to fall against me and it feels like an electric shock. I think she feels it too because she jumps up and mutters something about getting ready for bed.

She heads for the bathroom where I hear the toilet flush, the sound of the shower start then stop a little while later. The medicine cabinet door opens and closes and then there's nothing but silence. She been in there forever and I check my watch. It's half past eleven and I think she's killing time hoping that maybe I'll pass out.

"Gen, you okay?" I shout out and I hear her yelp but the door finally opens.

She comes out wrapped in a towel, her damp hair dark against her pale skin, a half grin on her face.

"Sorry," she says and I get up and cross over to stand in front of her.

"Do you mind?" I ask pointing to the bathroom and her cheeks color.

"No, no, not at all. There are extra towels under the sink," she says and, when I go into the small, steamy bathroom and shut the door, she hollers out, "There's a loaded crossbow under there, too, so be careful."

I shower quickly because the sooner I'm laying uncomfortably and wide awake in the bed next to her, the sooner I'll be on my way. When I come out of the bathroom the bedroom is dark except for a small bedside lamp. I can see the mound in the bed that is Genoa and I drop my towel on the floor and slide silently into the bed expecting to find her covered from head to toe in puppy dog pajamas and thick woolen socks but to my surprise she naked and she smells fantastic.

I lay on my side, facing her back; my head resting on my arm and gently run my fingertip over her shoulder.

"Sweet Genoa," I whisper, "I just wanted to thank you," and listen for a reply.

'I'll call it. Time of death: 10:41 am.'

snsnsnsnsn

I hear him whisper something then I hear him take in a ragged, desperate breath. I turn over and see in the lamplight that his eyes are closed, his face is pinched in misery and his jaw is working furiously. He swallows almost painfully as if choking on his own tears and what's left of my resolve dissolves. Big surprise.

I reach out to touch him and he opens his eyes and looks into mine for a split second then pushes me onto my back. He covers me quickly, his weight pushing me deep into the broken down mattress and kisses me hungrily, first my lips, then my forehead and then my eyelids. A trail of kisses down my throat leads to my breasts. His whiskers brush sensitive skin as he sucks one nipple then the other and then, with a growl, he rises up on his arms, his muscles rippling with the effort and with my help, enters me.

There is no hesitation on his part as he buries himself fully into me again and again. He doesn't make love gently but ferociously almost desperately and I understand. The tears come from someplace deep inside of him and the source of those tears makes him angry and ashamed.

I come with a moan, his almost brutal thrusting taking me over the edge quickly, completely and he follows, his head thrown back, his muscles straining, gasping for air, his breath ragged. Still using his arms for support he drops his head and I feel first one drop, then another on my breasts. I start to cry when I realize that his tears, so full of pain, couldn't hurt me more if I were a demon and they holy water.

snsnsnsnsn

Nice job Winchester I think as I lie beside Genoa and listen to her sniffle. She's turned away from me and is balled up almost in a fetal position. I can't stand it for very long and pull her in close to me. She eventually relaxes and lets me spoon with her.

"I'm sorry," I say lamely and she shakes her head.

I place a kiss in her sweet smelling hair and she starts crying again and I wish I'd stayed one of those assholes who'd slept with her but never touched her.

"Genoa, Gen, I'm sorry if I hurt you…" I try but she's having none of my apology.

"No don't," she says and turns to face me and lets me wrap her in my arms again.

She wipes her eyes and smiles tentatively at me, her lips still trembling and says, "You didn't hurt me. It was your tears. They broke my heart."

The bar clock below strikes midnight and I tell her, "All my days are pretty bad but today...yesterday...was an especially bad one for me."

Gen swallows hard and asks me in a tiny voice, "Why?"

"One of the most important people in my life died a year ago...on July 19th," I say and I tell her that and all of my secrets.

snsnsnsnsn

He finally fell asleep but only after telling me his story, the one about unimaginable sacrifice and the unbearable guilt that goes with such a hard decision. I don't know if I agree with the choice that was made that day in the hospital but then I don't have to live with the consequences. He does and he's on his way to Jackson, Mississippi to face more of his demons.

snsnsnsnsn

"You didn't kill him?" the disembodied voice that comes from behind me says and I can't help but shiver.

It's a rhetorical question because he would have known in an instant if the hunter who has chased him relentlessly for more than twenty years were dead and his anger and his contempt for my perceived failure shine brightly in his piss yellow eyes.

"I didn't have to," I tell him.

"But what about the first seal?" Azazel asks with a growl.

"He's not a righteous man. He chose vengeance instead of sacrifice."

"Who then?"

"I think we already have our righteous man," I tell him but he's not as sure.

"It's been over one hundred years," he reminds me speaking of the poor soul who came to us on July, 19, 2006.

I huff disgustedly because for most of those one hundred years I've been right there with him, cursing him each time he refuses to pick up the knife and start carving. But I know that one day he won't be able to stand the pain any longer and he will fracture...just like his bones.

I smile to put Azazel's mind at ease and tell him, "He's been harder to break than most but he will not fail us. The seal will be broken and Lucifer will rise."

Azazel takes a few minutes to mull over what I've told him and seems satisfied with my assurances...for the moment.

"And John Winchester?" he asks saying the name with a sneer, hatred dripping from every syllable and I smile at him.

Through the human I can feel his tears as he made love to her, feel his abject misery and I tell Azazel, "He couldn't be in more pain if he _were_ in hell."

"And the hunter you're wearing?" the yellow eyed demon wants to know.

"She didn't know what hit her," I say rubbing my hands over the voluptuous breasts and down to the perfectly rounded ass while her voice, inside my head, screams.

Azazel walks to the door of the bar and stops to turn and stare at me.

"And if Dean Winchester is not the righteous man?"

"Then there's always next year."

FIN

I've always heard that John's deal to save Dean was selfish. What if he had never made that deal?


End file.
